


a moon among stars

by murdermewithbooks



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:26:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27034900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murdermewithbooks/pseuds/murdermewithbooks
Summary: Having been taken from your home planet as a youngling, you were raised within the influences of what’s left of the Empire. As Moff Gideon’s charge, you were trained to become one of the deadliest assassins of your time, a true asset for the Imperial agenda. But when Gideon sends you on a mission involving one Mandalorian and his mysterious bounty, you must decide with whom your loyalties lie—a complete stranger who becomes all too familiar, or your own survival.
Relationships: Din Djarin & Reader, Din Djarin/You, The Mandalorian & You, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You
Comments: 6
Kudos: 31





	1. The Hunt

**Author's Note:**

> i hope y'all enjoy reading this series as much as i enjoyed writing it. any comments are always welcome 💜

“Hela, Moff Gideon wants a word with you,” Reed announces without so much as a knock on the door to alert you of his presence. But you had heard his heavy footsteps plodding along the corridor before he even rounded the corner. Reclining back in your chair, you prop your legs onto the desk and roll your eyes at the sneering older man

“Oh? What does ‘the boss’ want so badly that he’s sent his favorite lapdog to retrieve me?” you sigh dramatically, boredom clear on your features. You turn your wrist so the blade in your hand flips outward only to twist it back around as you repeat the motion several more times. 

“I haven’t the slightest clue what he wants with you...or why he bothers keeping you around at all. But alas, here you are,” he quips back, his hands clasped together behind his back, puffing his chest out in a show of authority. 

_What a kriffing joke_ , you think to yourself as you quirk an eyebrow at him. Of all the commanders or captains or whatever these assholes under Gideon’s command are referred to as, Reed is _by far_ the worst. You’ve known him since you were a youngling, when Gideon first plucked you from your home planet after the Empire wiped out half its population—including your parents.

And if it were up to Reed, you would have been left to rot in the ruins of that desolate place.

Dragging your legs off the desk, you sheath your blade and shoulder passed him, muttering under your breath, “As if I _want_ to be here.” Before leaving your quarters, you snatch up your visor to conceal your features, just as you’ve done for most of your life. Even while on base, you’ve made a habit of keeping your identity a mystery to outsiders—the only people having seen your face being Gideon, Reed, and a couple of Gideon’s other trusted advisers.

You’ve always loathed the idea of hiding behind a mask, but it’s played a huge part in allowing you to get close to and take out targets without them ever suspecting who you truly are— _Hela, fierce warrior of the Empire and executioner for the infamous Moff Gideon_. 

It isn’t something you’re proud to be known as—a master of death and terror among men—but it’s what has helped you survive all these years, practically being held captive by these Imperial scum. 

But if you ever get the chance to use your deadly prowess on Gideon himself, you could finally be free of this place—this wicked life that’s been forced upon you. And you would never come to regret a single drop of his blood on your hands—even if he _is_ considered to be your “father,” for all intents and purposes. 

Pulling your hood over your head, you saunter through the corridors that lead you to Gideon’s strategy room where you’re greeted by two stormtroopers. Your head tilts with curiosity. Gideon never uses security of any kind, which means there must be someone else in there with him who _does_. 

“Fellas,” you address them, your voice somewhat muffled beneath your visor as you reach for the panel on the wall to punch in the entrance code. But before you even come into contact with it, Fella #1 lowers his blaster in front of you, blocking the way as he says in that monotone voice all stormtroopers have, “He’s busy.”

You make a show of looking down at the weapon he’s pressing against your chest, then slowly lift your gaze to meet his bucket of a helmet as you chuckle, “I’m sorry, you must have me mistaken with someone who gives a shit.”

Before the buckethead can take his next breath, your blade is sliding into the space between his helmet and chest plate, right up against his throat. “Move,” you demand in an eerily calm voice and he grunts in response just as the panel doors slide open. 

“That’s enough, Hela,” Gideon’s voice reaches your ears and you curse him for the interruption. _We were just getting to the good part, too_ , you sigh as you lower your blade and step back, lowering your head slightly. 

An old man with somewhat beady eyes walks out behind Gideon, a scowl twisting his features as he seethes to the stormtroopers, “Let’s go.” He barely spares you a glance as they brush past you and out of sight. 

You turn towards Gideon, your back straightening as you say, “You wanted to see me.” He nods once, motioning for you to enter before him. Once inside, you stand at attention, waiting for him to give you orders of some kind. 

“I have a job for you—one that is of great importance to me.” He goes on to tell you about a high-priority asset that was taken captive by the bounty hunter who was originally hired for the job.

“A Mandalorian?” you ask when he hands you a tracking fob, surprised that a Mandalorian would commit such an act of treason. From what you’ve heard, Mandalorians are strictly business—they get in and get out, barely exchanging any words with their employers, and are often cold and disconnected from everyone else. 

They might as well be droids, as far as you’re concerned.

“Yes, a Mandalorian. I have my suspicions for who the man beneath the helmet is, but for now, he is to be considered extremely dangerous—ruthless.” _But so am I_ , you think to yourself as you consider Gideon’s words.

“So, you want me to annihilate this Mandalorian and bring the asset back to you—” a statement, no question, _never_ ask more questions than is absolutely necessary “—that’s no easy feat. It may take me some time to track them down.” 

“I don’t care _what_ it takes!” his outburst makes you flinch, and for once, you’re glad your features are hidden behind a mask. “Just get the job done as quickly and efficiently as possible. You _cannot_ fail, Hela...or do I need to remind you what happens when you fail me?” He purses his lips, his eyes void of all emotion.

Bile stings your throat but you give no outer indication to his effect on you, “No, sir.” The corner of his mouth quirks up and your fingers burn to grip your blade and slice his cheek open, giving him a _permanent_ smirk. 

“Good. Go, then. There’s no time to waste,” he dismisses you and you don’t hesitate to turn on your heel, but something prods the back of your mind. You turn back to him and he quirks an annoyed eyebrow at you as you ask, “Is there...anything else I need to know about the asset...or its captor?”

Gideon watches you for a moment, choosing his words carefully, “It may not... _appear_ as dangerous as it truly is. Do not underestimate it...or the Mandalorian.” He hardly blinks as he levels his stare with you, a chill crawling its way up your spine.

You nod once in acknowledgement before taking your leave to track down the asset...and put an end to this Mandalorian.

~~~

**_months later_ **

With the child secure on the Razor Crest, Din ventures into town for a quick supply run as well as any jobs to take on. He still has enough credits to get through the next few weeks, but he never _was_ one to take time off, especially not now that he has another mouth to feed.

Thankfully, the little one isn’t too high maintenance and Din feels only _slightly_ out of his element with a child in his care. He’s actually come to enjoy the little womp rat’s company—a fact he doesn’t allow himself to dwell on for too long, knowing that eventually he will have to give the child back to its people.

He enters the local cantina, paying no mind to the stares and whispers of the townsfolk inside. Over the years he’s gotten used to catching the eyes of others. These days, Mandalorians are few and far between, at least in the outer rim. The constant vigilance is just another part of the job—one that he takes pride in excelling at—even if he does despise all the attention. 

The barkeep drops what he’s doing to immediately tend to the lone Mandalorian and Din is silently grateful to get in and out of this shanty place as quickly as possible. While he waits for the barkeep to gather the materials he’s asked for, Din glances over his shoulder, effectively getting the onlooking patrons to avert their eyes.

But one woman on the other side of the cantina does not look away, her eyes zeroed in on the T of his visor. It’s almost jarring, the way she stares into him as if she sees right through his protective barrier and connects with his eyes. After a long moment, she blinks and her expression grows bashful as she drops her gaze into her lap.

 _Strange_ , Din thinks as she glances back at him, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth and her brows knitted together. He doesn’t know why he does it, but he nods once in her direction, a show of acknowledgement rather than simply brushing her off like he usually does with anyone who catches his eye.

Her eyes widen in surprise, her lips slowly forming a shy smile as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. The barkeep walks up just then and Din’s attention is called away as he quietly thanks the older man for the materials, sliding a few credits on the bar’s surface. As he gets up to leave, he glances back in the woman’s direction but she’s nowhere in sight.

“Very strange,” he mutters under his breath before exiting the cantina and heading back to his ship. 

~~~

As your target turns back to the barkeep, you drop your facade and slip out to the alley behind the cantina, careful not to draw attention to yourself. It’s an easy task, given that all eyes are glued to the beskar-clad warrior, rather than a simple “farm girl” such as yourself—or so your disguise suggests.

The whole time you and him were staring at one another, you couldn’t help but notice how much of a presence he holds—how compared to the ragged beings around him, he shines like a rare jewel in sunlight. His armor, which appears to be made of recently forged beskar, is like nothing you’ve ever seen before and you find yourself immediately drawn to him.

 _Well, to the armor—not to the man himself, obviously_. You shake your head to yourself, trying to stay focused on the task at hand.

It’s been some time since Gideon first gave you this assignment. You knew it would be a challenge, but you never realized how clever your target was—only speaking to others when absolutely necessary and never being in one place for longer than it takes to restock and refuel his ship. The _Razor Crest_ , you’ve discovered it’s called.

He and his bounty—who remains a complete mystery to you—have successfully evaded you for weeks now, but you finally got a decent lead on their whereabouts a few days ago. Normally, you would have terminated the Mandalorian on sight and raided his ship to find any traces of the asset, but something in the way Gideon warned you not to underestimate him gave you pause.

So you decided to hide out in plain sight and wait for your target to come to you. And truthfully, it’s refreshing not having to hide behind a mask most hours of the day, since the chances of anyone recognizing you on this wasteland of a planet are slim to none.

Ducking behind some crates, you watch closely as the Mandalorian struts away from the cantina, the suns’ reflections on his armor nearly blinding you. The rifle strapped to his back glints at you, along with the plethora of weapons garnishing his person—not including the ones he surely has hidden beneath the beskar.

You follow his route from a safe distance until he reaches the outskirts of town where virtually no other living being seems to be. _Finally_ , you think to yourself as you reach for the blaster that’s strapped to your thigh, concealed by the draping material of your tunic. 

Then he stops in his tracks, his back straightening as he slowly turns around and scans his surroundings. _Shit_ , you lean your shoulders back as far as they’ll go against the wall of a nearby outpost, holding your breath with the blaster at your side.

 _There’s no kriffing way he saw me_ , you try to reassure yourself as you peek over your shoulder to where the Mandalorian was stopped. You breathe a sigh of relief when you find him continuing onward again, though at a much more hurried pace.

 _It’s gotta be now—I can’t lose him again_ , you take a steadying breath as you aim your blaster at the spot just below his ribs. 

And you pull the trigger.

~~~

The hairs on the back of Din’s neck raise as he nears the edge of the small town. He’s about a quarter-mile away from reaching the Razor Crest, but something has him coming to a halt. He scans the immediate area but finds nothing or no one that poses a threat to him—just a couple stray townsfolk scurrying into the nearest buildings, _away_ from him.

He attributes it to his own paranoia, which has gotten exponentially worse since the kid came into his life. Regardless, it’s best to get back to the ship as soon as possible, so he picks up his pace. 

But he only gets a few steps further when a sharp, burning sensation stabs at his side, instantly sending him to the ground with a winded grunt. He lands on his uninjured side at the same moment he pulls his blaster from its holster, mindlessly aiming it every which way.

 _Where the fuck did that come from?_ He quickly glances down at his wound and finds a streak of scorched skin in one of the few parts of his body that _isn’t_ protected by beskar. But he won’t be able to see the full extent of his injury until he’s back on his ship.

He curses as he struggles to his feet, his eyes wild as he scans the area for the next assault. But it never comes. Whoever fired that blaster at him didn’t intend to kill him, just slow him down long enough to get to– 

“The kid. Shit!” He hisses in pain as he presses a hand to his side, his blaster still drawn and ready to fire. The blood rushing in his ears nearly deafens him to the sound of someone approaching. With his heart pounding in his chest, he turns and tightens his grip on the blaster, preparing to face his assailant. But instead, he finds himself face to face with–

“You,” he breathes out, his chest heaving from the blinding pain at his side. _The woman from the cantina_.

Your hands are raised as if in surrender, your eyes wide with fear—though he’s not sure if it’s fear for _his_ life or your own. “It wasn’t me. P-please. I’m not—you’re hurt...pretty bad by the looks of it,” you barely blink as you gesture to his side. He doesn’t have to look down to know that blood has started to slowly stream from his wound, through his gloved fingers.

“How did you–?” he starts but you cut him off, “I—I followed you...from the cantina. I just...I’ve never seen a Mandalorian here before.” You say in a rush, looking down as if embarrassed by such an admission. Your hands are still raised so he lowers his blaster, his hand shaking as he places it in its holster. “Please, I only wish to help,” you promise in a voice so quiet, he strains to hear it.

He knows better than to trust a complete stranger...and yet, something in your eyes—the intense sincerity in them—fills him with a strange sense of calm. _There’s that word again—_ strange.

“My ship...just passed those trees,” he grunts, his side throbbing in time with his racing heart. You nod, taking a hesitant step towards him and reaching for his arm to drape it over your shoulder. He bites down on his bottom lip to muffle the cry of pain that threatens to escape. 

The two of you walk in silence with Din occasionally looking over his shoulder in search of any threat that may be heading his way. You tighten your arm around his waist and he finds a small ounce of comfort in the subtle movement. 

But it’s not enough to quell that sense of impending doom tugging the back of his mind.

~~~

It’s almost _too_ easy to convince him that you mean no harm—that you “only wish to help.” The irony of your words is almost enough to make you chuckle, but you remain silent as the two of you near his ship. 

When it comes into view, your heart starts to race, anticipation coursing through your veins. This part of the hunt has always been the most difficult to endure—being so close to finishing the job, yet still having to face the biggest obstacle that stands between you and your prey. You wish to get it over with already, to snatch up the bounty and...and kill this man who is quite literally depending on you for his survival.

And if anything, at least it will be a quick execution .

The two of you come to a stop just a few meters away from the Razor Crest as the Mandalorian types out a code on his vambrace and a ramp is lowered from the side of the ship. “You doing okay?” you ask him in a shy voice that sounds nothing like your own. 

He grunts in response, his hand holding his side as you help him walk up the ramp and into the belly of the ship. It’s pitch black inside and you have to squint your eyes to see where you’re walking. He slowly reaches for the nearest wall with a panel that closes the ramp and brings the hull of the ship to life.

After blinking a few times to adjust to the new brightness of your surroundings, you feel the Mandalorian grow heavy in your arms. _Shit, he can’t die yet. I need to find the asset first._ “Hey, stay awake. We’re here. It’s gonna be okay,” you force out when his body slumps against a nearby crate.

“M-medkit,” he mumbles as he flimsily removes the rifle from his back. 

“Where?” you ask, trying to sound more concerned than annoyed, but your patience is wearing thin. He points to a compartment in the wall behind him. While you sift through the compartment for the medkit, you quickly glance around for any sign of the asset. 

Aside from some manufactured control panels on the walls, the space is completely void of any sort of possessions or even weaponry. _I’m gonna have to tear this place apart_ , you think as you clench your jaw. Locating the medkit, you return to the Mandalorian’s side to find him removing the part of his armor closest to the injury. 

You’re considering just pulling the blaster from his holster and finishing him off when a chittering sound reaches your ears. You instinctively turn towards the direction the sound came from, your hand flying to your waist where you would normally have your blade in its sheath.

You sense the Mandalorian freeze beside you when another, more high-pitched cry resonates throughout the space. “Shit,” he whispers just as the source of the noise comes into view. _What the_ –

Your heart nearly stops when you spot the little creature waddling towards you, a toothy smile on its face and its rather large ears perking up towards the ceiling. _Is that a–_

“A baby?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. _If that’s the asset...why would...what does Gideon want with_ a baby _?_

You hear the Mandalorian wince and you look over to see him attempting to clean his own wound. _“Attempt”_ being the operative word as he struggles to reach the part of the gash that is just behind his hip.

You glance back at the creature that’s gone silent and find it watching the beskar-clad warrior with sadness in its eyes, its ears now drooping with worry. _It’s...scared for him_. Your mind races with questions you have no way of answering right now.

While you try to make sense of the situation, you offer to help the Mandalorian care for his wound, quietly saying, “Let me.” He hesitates for only a moment before handing the bactaspray and bandages over to you.

 _Maker, what do I do? I can’t take that...child to Gideon. At the very least, not until I know what his true intentions are._ But who are you kidding? There’s no way Gideon has any good intentions in all this. And he sent _you_ —his renowned executioner—to do his bidding, after all. 

_What do I do?_ You look over at the little green creature as it touches the Mandalorian’s boot, its eyes glossy and wide.

_What do I do?_

~~~

As soon as the bactaspray comes into contact with his burning flesh, Din feels a stinging relief, the healing properties of the medicine quickly taking effect. His mind had started to fog those last few minutes of walking to the ship, the pain from his injury radiating along his side. 

He’d prayed to the Maker that the child had stayed secure in its little compartment Din had stowed him away in. But he should have known the little womp rat would find a way to open the door and venture into the hull of the ship.

Now, as you patch up the area of his wound he could not reach, he’s filled with a new kind of fear—one that can’t be fixed with a simple application of bactaspray. You’ve been silent this entire time, aside from your incredulous _“a baby?”_ comment just a few moments ago. He doesn’t know what to expect from you, a woman whose name he doesn’t even know.

 _Maker, how could I be so_ stupid _as to let a strange woman into the one place that’s_ supposed to be _safest for the child?_ He chastises himself but knows that it’s too late now—that this can really only go one of two ways. But no matter what happens, keeping the child safe is his absolute priority.

He just hopes he doesn’t end up having to threaten you—the person who saved his life—into silence.

~~~

By the time you place the last bandage on his wound, you’ve made up your mind. “How does that feel?” you ask him, and to which he replies, “Better. Thank you...for everything.” His voice is low, almost timid, though slightly altered by the vocoder in his helmet.

Replacing the medkit in its compartment, you gnaw on your bottom lip, feigning uncertainty before asking, “Who takes care of...the child...when you’re gone?” You already know the answer but you have to make a show of naivety to get him to trust you.

“I—no one, I suppose. He’s safe on the Razor Crest...even if he does get into trouble sometimes,” he speaks almost fondly of the little one, but you don’t allow yourself to dwell on the meaning behind his somewhat playful tone. 

“Surely you have at least a nurse droid around to keep an eye on him,” you suggest, hoping it isn’t the case. What you don’t expect, though, is for the Mandalorian to stiffen in both demeanor and posture. 

“No droids,” he states simply, his voice cold and final. _O-K, clearly he is not a fan of droids_ , you think to yourself. After a beat, you offer, “I can...watch over him. If you want. I mean, sure, he’s safe aboard the ship but what if something happens and you don’t return for days or _weeks_ at a time? How will the poor thing survive with no one around to care for him?” You fight the urge to cross your arms over your chest and instead try to keep your body language as open and neutral as possible.

“Why are you so interested in helping me?” he asks suddenly, his words laced with curiosity. For a moment, you think he might have figured you out, or at least realized you’re not who you say you are. But then his helmet tilts to the side and he casually leans his rear against the crate he had nearly toppled over just minutes before.

The corner of your mouth twitches, begging to be pulled into a full-blown smirk, but you opt for a softer approach. Looking down at your hands, you quietly admit, “Because I...I too am completely alone—no family, no people who truly care whether I live or die. And you just–” you lift your gaze to meet his, your eyes misty with forced tears “–you seem like someone who can understand...what that’s like.”

A deafening silence fills the air, the only sound being the soft snores of the child who has fallen asleep with his head on the Mandalorian’s boot. What you’ve said is not entirely untrue. You _are_ alone, with no family or friends—no place to call your _home_. And if there’s one thing you know for sure, it’s that this man clearly has a soft spot for lost things and maybe he himself is lost too.

After what feels like an eternity of you two studying one another, he finally says, “okay,” his form remaining completely still, save for the subtle up-and-down movement of his chest.

“Okay? I can...I can stay?” genuine shock fills your voice as he nods his answer. And for a split second, you forget the whole reason you’re here for—that you were _this_ close to ending this man’s life.

But for now—until you figure out your next move—he’ll live to see another day.


	2. The Passenger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one’s a little on the shorter side but i really wanted to post the next chapter of this series. i hope y’all enjoy it!

You’ve always appreciated silence. It was a rare occurrence living on an Imperial base where stormtroopers were constantly roaming the halls, their armor clanking obnoxiously with every step.

But the silence between you and the Mandalorian, as you sit in the cockpit of the Razor Crest, makes you weary and tense. And it doesn’t help to hear the little one delightfully cooing in its pod just behind you—a constant reminder of your reason for being here in the first place.

What does Gideon want with this thing—this seemingly innocent creature that poses no threat to anyone or anything? Really the only dangerous thing about it is that it could potentially compromise your own resolve to complete the mission. 

You glance over your shoulder at the child and its eyes instantly connect with yours, its ears perking up with excitement. Once the Mandalorian sends the ship into hyperspace, he reaches for something on the control panel, twisting off the knob of what appears to be an antenna of some sort. He silently hands the spherical object to the child who releases a squeal of joy when accepting it into its tiny claw.

The Mandalorian chuckles softly as the baby brings the shiny ball to its mouth, covering it in saliva. A gentle smile tugs at the corners of your lips as you face forward again, the Mandalorian doing the same. Out of the corner of your eye, you observe your companion, the way he relaxes into his seat and the reflections of hyperspace dancing along his beskar.

Every part of him is covered—even his hands are enveloped in thick leather gloves. You know he’s naturally tan beneath all those layers, since you helped patch him up after—well, after you shot him just a few hours ago. The visor of his helmet is tinted, so much so that you can’t make out any of his facial features, though at certain angles you can just see the outline of his jaw—strong yet slightly rounded by his cheeks.

His age, however, is more of a mystery. He’s older, you know that much just based on the gravelly rasp of his voice. Yet he moves with a confidence and grace that suggests he’s more...physically _adequate_ than he lets on. And he’s obviously been bounty hunting for quite some time now—which makes it all the more satisfying that such a renowned warrior fell prey to _you_.

You’re pulled from your thoughts when the Mandalorian clears his throat and turns his seat to face you. Your leg and arm muscles instinctively go taut, bracing for a fight as you would with any other potential opponent. It takes a moment for you to remember that you’re not supposed to be some master assassin...not here. So you offer him a shy, tight-lipped smile, hoping he pays you no mind. 

And hoping he didn’t notice you staring.

~~~

Din knows your staring. He can _feel_ your eyes on him and it takes an immense amount of willpower for him not to stare right back.

The moment the three of you settled into the cockpit, his thoughts started reeling. _Why did I let her stay? Why did she offer to help me at all?_ He knows he should be nothing but grateful that you were around when he was attacked by someone who remains a mystery to him. 

But when he glances back at the kid, chuckling at the sight of him sticking the knob in his tiny mouth, a sinking feeling settles in Din’s stomach. The only thing that matters to him right now is keeping the child safe and as far away from the Empire as possible.

And yet, he allowed a complete stranger to join him and his ward—at least for the time being. It was an impulsive decision, one he hasn’t stopped thinking about since he made it. But the way you said _“I too am completely alone,”_ stirred something to life within him. He knows all too well what that’s like, to have nothing and no one that he so truly cares about...or who cares about him. 

He’s been on his own since he was practically a youngling. It’s all he’s ever known. And though the Mandalorians that saved him from the wreckage of his home planet accepted him as one of their own, there remains a void in his life for something he can’t quite name. 

But he saw that same exact _something_ in your eyes when you offered to watch over the child. It shook him to his very core and he nearly stumbled over himself, if not for the crate that he leaned on for support. 

He also doesn’t exactly trust you, though if he’s being honest with himself, he doesn’t trust anyone—aside from Cara and Kuill, and maybe Greef Karga, but Din remains somewhat weary of the former magistrate. In any case, he figures he should keep a close eye on you if you are to take care of the child while he’s off chasing a bounty or dealing with some other form of business.

It’s then that he realizes he doesn’t even know your name and he resists the urge to shake his head at himself. Setting the ship to autopilot, he turns his seat to face you but his voice gets caught in his throat. 

He can’t even remember the last time he held a conversation with anyone beyond the context of guild work. Needless to say, his social skills are a little rusty. After a brief pause to gather his thoughts, he opens his mouth to speak, but you beat him to the punch.

“So...do you have a name? Or do you go solely by _‘mandalorian’_?” you ask in a somewhat brazen manner that takes him aback. But your features are soft and curious, so he attributes his misinterpretation to exhaustion, and maybe a little bit to the persistent throbbing at his side.

“Most people call me ‘Mando’,” he states with a subtle shrug. He doesn’t particularly care for the name but he’s gotten used to it after so many years of working for the guild. You slowly nod your head, absorbing his words before asking, “And what about the rest?”

_The rest?_ He furrows his brow, uncertain of what you mean. You seem to sense his confusion because after a beat, you clarify, “You said ‘most people’ call you Mando...what about the minority? What do they call you?” 

You’re teasing him, he realizes, and the corner of his mouth quirks up, though you can’t see his expression. The slight lift of your eyebrow only confirms his suspicion and he decides to play along. “The minority don’t call me anything. They’re usually unconscious or dead before we share formal greetings.”

He’s met with silence, your gaze never wavering, though Din notices something flash in your eyes as you process his words. If he didn’t know any better, he’d swear your expression turned to something akin to... _interest_. His face grows hot at the idea of you having any kind of interest in _him_ , surely he must be misreading the situation—again.

A moment later, you tear your gaze from his while clearing your throat. Your eyes grow slightly rounder, seemingly caught off guard by his answer—but not frightened like most people are when they’re around him.

“And...what should I call you?” he asks, his voice thick with nerves. He doesn’t understand why he’s so anxious to know your name or why he’s so anxious just being around you in general. Perhaps it really _has_ been too long since he’s been in someone’s company for longer than a few minutes.

But he knows deep down, that’s not the case.

You’re quiet for a long moment, your thoughts elsewhere, until you bring your gaze back to him and whisper your name like it's a secret that even the sleeping child behind you shouldn’t hear.

He softly repeats your name to himself, admiring it and the way it rolls off his tongue. _It suits you_ , he thinks as he hums in return and leans back in his chair. You seem to relax in your seat as well, as if a weight has been lifted off your chest simply from sharing your name with him. 

But then your hand reaches for something at your side. You must not have found what you were looking for because a second later you bring your hand back to the armrest, gripping it tightly as your jaw clenches in subtle annoyance. 

“Are you alright?” he asks with an air of caution. He sits up a little too quickly, his wound screaming in protest. He tries to muffle the wince that involuntarily escapes him, but you don’t miss it. Your head snaps up in his direction, your brow furrowed with concern as you ask, “Are _you_ alright?”

He chuckles dryly, the irony of the situation not lost upon him. He shakes his head as he gets to his feet, mumbling, “I’m fine—probably just needs more bacta.” Before you can respond, he rushes out of the cockpit with the excuse of tending to his wound...and taking a moment to catch his breath.

~~~

You gave him your real name. 

Not “Hela,” obviously, but the name your parents gave you. The name no one has called you by since you were a youngling. In fact, you can't even remember if Gideon has ever referred to you by your real name. 

When the Mandalo— _Mando_ said your name under his breath, you were instantly transported back to the day your life was destroyed. The day your family was destroyed. It happened so quickly, there was no chance in stopping the wave of memories from flooding your mind. You tried to act casual, mimicking Mando’s relaxed posture, but the images and screams of those around you on that fateful day kept you trapped in your memory.

Out of habit, you had reached for the blade you normally keep at your side, where it’s ready at all times to be unsheathed and plunged into the hearts of your enemies. But of course it’s not there. You purposely left it in your boot, just in case your target somehow discovered it on your person and became suspicious of your true intentions.

Then Mando winced in pain, bringing you back to the present. He claimed he was fine as he sprung to his feet before leaving the cockpit without so much as a second glance at you. And now, as you watch his fleeting form, you can’t help but wonder what his life must be like—being all alone in the vastness of space with no one else to talk to.

A soft sigh brings your attention to the little one who is fast asleep in his pod, the shiny metal ball still clutched in his claw. _Maybe Mando isn’t completely alone after all_. But...what does it matter to you whether the bounty hunter has people he cares about or not? You barely know the man—you _shouldn’t_ know him at all. He should have been carrion long before he even realized you were watching him. 

And yet you’ve deliberately put yourself in his path, all because you couldn’t bring yourself to carry out your mission once you discovered the asset was _a child._

As you observe the little one—the way his ear twitches every now and then—and how peacefully he sleeps, your heart sinks at the idea of any sort of harm coming to him.

And again that question resounds in your mind— _what does Gideon want with him?_

You slowly place your hand on the rim of the pod, careful not to wake the child as your finger softly strokes the back of his tiny claw. “What’s gonna happen to you, little one?” you whisper, memories of cold, dark nights on the Imperial base flashing through your mind. If his fate is anything like yours, then this child has no one left in the galaxy—well, no one except–

“That’s what I'm trying to figure out,” Mando’s voice reaches your ears and you remove your hand from the child’s pod quicker than you can blink. _How long has he been standing there?_ You’d been so lost in thought you hadn’t even noticed him standing in the doorway to the cockpit. 

You internally chastise yourself for not being more alert, especially around Mando. Though, you _are_ impressed at his ability to sneak up on you. _No one_ sneaks up on you—not even Gideon.

“Has he been with you long?” you ask, referring to the child, as Mando takes his seat in the pilot’s chair and faces forward. He hesitates before answering with a simple, “No.” You take that as a hint to not pry any further into the matter, at least for now. 

The sharp clanking of metal has both you and Mando snapping your heads in the child’s direction, only to find the metal ball on the ground by his pod. It must have fallen out of the little one’s grip, though he doesn’t seem to notice as he remains in a deep slumber.

You bend down to pick up the spherical object when your hand gently bumps into Mando’s outstretched arm, your fingers grazing his wrist. The subtle contact sends a shock up your arm, making you flinch back into your seat. He does the same after quickly snatching up the object and you can almost swear you hear the faintest gasp come through his vocoder. 

“Sorry, I was gonna–” you start, but he cuts you off with “It’s fine.” He quickly twists the sphere back onto where it belongs and leans back into his seat as he busies himself with the controls of the ship. 

A tingling sensation pulses at the tips of your fingers for a few moments longer. It's only when you ball your hand into a fist at your side that the feeling begins to fade.

And the silence of hyperspace engulfs you once more.


End file.
